It was Damsel Gloriant,
’Bove the prisoners all she cried:
“Hear thou, Olger good, the Dane,
Have thy legs yet power to stride?
“Art thou living, Olger Dane?
I have something to impart;
There is a trold for me that lusts,
And that trold is Burman swart.
“I’ll not wed the filthy guest,
I’m betrothed to Christian knight;
I to thee will subject be
If thou conquer him in fight.”
“Here I’ve lain for fifteen years,
All in chains and bondage hard;
Blessings on thee, Gloriant,
That to me thou hast repaired.
“Here for fifteen years I’ve lain,
Borne fierce hunger-pangs, and thirst;
I’m not able now to wage
Fight as I was able erst.”
“Hear thou me, good Olger Dane,
Save me from my peril, save;
Ere I take the ugly trold
I would fling me in my grave.
“Burman is fierce, his horse is wild
I to thee will tell forsooth,
I have heard and been assured
That he bites with wolfish tooth.
“Nothing, nothing will he eat
But the flesh of Christian men;
And nothing, nothing, will he drink
But human blood mixt up with bane.”
“Thy father means a gallant man,
King Carvel to share thy bed;
Can he not hold thee from the trold,
That thou unto me hast sped?
“Blessings on thee, Gloriant,
That thou didst upon me think,
With Burman I will break a lance
If thou give me good meat and drink.